


Statistical Anomaly

by damnrightitskakko



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:32:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnrightitskakko/pseuds/damnrightitskakko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Motouya believed he was an ordinary professor. An inventor, a guide, a man of many talents, to be sure--but for all his high opinion of his work and what he did, he never thought there was anything peculiar about his life. It was normal, all things considered, but he liked it; you only live once, after all.</p>
<p>Except, perhaps, as he was beginning to find out, that wasn't the case after all.</p>
<p>A collection of out-of-sync stories that explore the outliers of probability</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Get this Party started

**Author's Note:**

> At last, I finally got an account on this site--and now I'm moving all of my fics from tumblr into a place where they're more easily accessible to people. Hurray!--and maybe, who knows, I'll actually finish these things. You know. 
> 
> This is a reincarnation fic with uh, interesting past-life revelations and character interactions, I suppose. Mostly, identity crisis. Hence, there's gonna be some throwing around of different names (I tried to use historical ones for reasons.
> 
> name guides - Chosokabe Motochika->Chosokame Motouya (hi kanji name shit)
> 
> Tokugawa Ieyasu->Matsudaira Takeo (historical nameshit playing woo)

It was a raucous party, alright. No doubt, a night that all would remember to some degree, despite the amount of alcohol that some of the students were intent on packing away. It was just as well; the gathering was fairly small, composed of teachers and grad students from the engineering department, and it made things more personal. 

Well, it was supposed to be composed of teachers and grad students. However, as far as Motouya could tell, he was the only resident teacher around. Or at least, the others had been there for a while, but had left some time ago. He didn’t mind—the lot of them were a stuffy bunch, anyways, and they would have made everyone too self-conscious to really let loose. Boy, did everyone need a little of that, what with Quals coming around. 

He looked out at the small crowd, all gathered together cheerfully in the sophmorist house they’d rented for the night, and smiled as he caught one face in particular. The Matsudaira kid—Takeo, his name was Takeo—had his arm wrapped around one of the other grad students in happy comradeship, with a smile that tugged at something deep within Motoya. There was something peaceful about that smile, which spoke volumes to the young man’s maturity; he could live in the moment, but he never lost himself in it. It was a rare quality in a man so young, and Motouya couldn’t help but finding himself becoming more interested in his favorite protege. 

Perhaps, he admitted, a little  _too_  interested. 

As if on cue, Takeo looked over from the festivities and caught Motoya’s gaze. He grinned, and waved—that painful, peaceful smile that made Motoya’s heart dip uncomfortably. He held back a sigh, and waved back. Motoya was no stranger to his own preferences; he liked them young and boisterous, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. He certainly hadn’t had qualms in the past about dating within the department. But he wasn’t getting any younger himself—and Takeo was the youngest grad student to enter his tutelage. There was something almost criminal about the feelings Takeo inspired in him. 

Yet, the hungry voice had never spoken to him in dreams for anyone else. 

_Want him. Take him. Make him your own. Don’t let him get away._

Motoya furrowed his brows together. The last bit always made him uneasy; what was there for Takeo to run away  _to_? It’s not as if he knew that much about the other in the first place. More than that, there was always something…distant, about the boy. As if his mind traveled to some faraway place and time that Motouya would never know. 

"I’m thinking about this too much", he grumbled, and moved away from the wall to join the group. He put on his best smile, and once more caught Takeo’s gaze as he began to amble towards him.

It happened before he knew to be worried; one second, Takeo was smiling at him, one cup of sake in hand—and in the next, a hand had snaked out from the crowd and pulled Takeo away into a kiss.

He froze. The hell was this skinny punk? Motoya didn’t even get to ask—Takeo’s eyes had flown open, and the other person was violently pushed away. In a heartbeat, the crowd had stopped their milling as the stranger’s presence was noticed. He definitely stuck out; a wire of a man, with a shock of white hair styled eccentrically down the center. There was no warmth in his features. A smudge of red was at the corner of his mouth—blood. But what really churned Motoya’s insides was how his attention, his very being seemed focused entirely upon Takeo.

"Who…who are you", Takeo sputtered over his hand, clasped to his mouth. His voice was weak, and there was a pinched tenor to his voice—oh  _god_. The bastard had bitten Takeo’s  _tongue._

"So you don’t remember me yet", the mysterious figure intoned—and Motoya shivered with discomfort. What warmth he lacked in his appearance was more than made up for in the heat his voice carried; there was a strange passion to the other’s tone. "How typical of you to abandon me, Ieyasu—even in your memories, you neglect me!"

_Ieyasu_? Motoya opened his mouth to protest, but found himself frozen to the spot. Takeo’s eyes were wide with an unvoiced fear. His jaw worked slowly, and his voice was stronger than before.

"Mitsunari."

The other man—Mitsunari—raised an eyebrow, and cocked his head. “So you’re not completely empty inside. Not that it matters—you’ll remember everything soon enough.”

Oh, he’d had enough now. 

"Hey!" Motoya blurted out, and finally stepped up to the pair. "What the hell are you doing here? This is a private party!"

Mitsunari angled his head slightly in his direction, which only made his temper boil more. 

"Oh. It’s  _you”_ , he noted, bored. “Get out of my way. This doesn’t concern you.”

"The hell it doesn’t", Motoya growled, and placed himself between them. "I don’t know who you are or what kind of connection you got to my student, but I don’t tolerate harassment of my kids. You either get out now, or I remove you with force!"

Mitsunari narrowed his eyes at him. He thought the other was actually going to take him on—but the charged moment passed, and Mitsunari began to back away. 

"Very well,  _filthy pirate_. But know this; Ieyasu is mine. His life, his soul, his  _death_ —all belong to me, and there is no power in heaven or hell that will keep me from taking him—not even  _you_ ”, he growled. He turned on his heel to leave, and not one person in the room stood in his way.

"…The fuck was that", Motoya hissed, and placed his hands on his hips. "Filthy pirate? What kind of insult is that, eh?" he grunted, and turned around to check on Takeo—

_Ieyasu._

Gods, it was terrifying how drawn his appearance had become. Takeo was shaking, and his hands gripped at each other tensely. One look at his eyes, though, and Motoya knew he wasn’t there anymore; he’d gone back to that other place, where he could never touch him.

"Come on, no gawking", he growled at the others, and pulled Takeo aside with him. He didn’t stop dragging the other until they were out of sight; there was a prep room on the other side of the hall.Then, he gently shook the other into awareness.

"Takeo", he implored, not giving a whit if anyone heard him using the other’s name so familiarly. "Get a hold of yourself. What the devil is going on here?"

One shake, then two; the young man snapped back, and looked up at Motoya with the most painfully lost expression he’d ever seen.

"It’s coming. Oh god—I’m sorry", Takeo babbled, and looked about ready to cry. "I’m so sorry—"

"What? Don’t be sorry, you fool", Motoya chided, and swept a hand through the other’s hair. "You haven’t done anything wrong—"

"No, it’s not—it’s not that", Takeo interrupted. "I’m going to—" he stopped, and wobbled in Motoya’s grip. His eyes snapped shut, as if trying to block something out, and he pressed his hands hard against his temples in obvious pain. 

"Oi. Oi, get a grip", Motoya chided, and sunk down to the floor with Takeo’s weight. The unfamiliar burn of panic flared in his chest. How could this be happening? What even _was_  happening? He began to fumble around in his pocket for his cellphone to call—someone, anyone. Before he could finally fish it out, a soft whine pitched in his ears. Takeo’s eyes were still closed in pain, and he’d clamped his mouth down tight over muffled screams.

"Fuck—" Motoya placed his hands over Takeo’s to try and pull them away, but flinched at the touch. Takeo’s hands were wet—not sweaty with exhaustion, but  _wet_ ; a sticky, insidious wetness.

Blood.

Motoya jerked one of Takeo’s hands free, and stared at it in horror; as he watched, small cuts opened and split all over his skin. He looked over and saw the other hand splitting in kind. Suddenly, it was as if there was blood everywhere—on Takeo’s hands, in his hair, on his face—Motoya looked down and found it on his own hands as well—and it was just—

Takeo gasped. His eyes fluttered open briefly, and a flicker of gold light seemed to flash in his eyes. It was over before Motouya could believe it; Takeo’s eyes rolled, and his lids closed as he slumped into unconsciousness. Motoya caught him, and stared in shock.

_Ieyasu_

Motoya cringed against an unknown feeling, and clutched the younger closer to himself. There was nothing else he could do.

 


	2. The Beginning of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reincarnation is a funny thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminders: Matsudaira Takeo=Tokugawa Ieyasu (reincarnation is a strange thing, what with names changing and all)

As a boy, Takeo’s life had been good; he was prodigious, driven, and he liked watching robots beat up the bad guys on tv. His parents were his gods, his friends and his greatest source of embarrassment. Though he was talented and loved the praise he received, he never truly believed himself to be as special as the people in his life proclaimed him to be. 

But then one night, he went to sleep and began to remember. 

The first “memory” he had was of him dying. The smell of blood filled his nose, and the sky above him was black with ash. Fire, he noted belatedly, in that strange haze that existed between being a part of the dream, and being outside of it. It was a hazardous, painful landscape, as if the land itself was bleeding out. But there was no rage, no terror as he looked up and saw the face of his killer. Instead, a grief filled him to the deepest parts, till he might as well have been an empty shell. The heavy weapon rose with a labored breath, and then blackness came. 

He remembered waking almost as clearly as sleeping; he had stirred softly, with tears clouding his vision, and the slow return of his senses reminded him of who he was. In his dreams, he was a man; but upon waking, Takeo knew himself to be seven years old. 

At first, he did not know the dream for what it really was. He sulked for days in his room without eating or sleeping, and the pang of guilt burned sharp when his parents coddled him without asking what made him act the way he did. But the sadness of the vision faded eventually, and he regained his usual cheer. The face he couldn’t remember still bothered him, but he thought it nothing more than just a dream. 

The second memory came when he was eight. So did the third. They were a few months apart, but that was close enough for Takeo to realize that there was something different about these dreams. They were too real, too familiar to be normal. In one dream, he knew the taste of sake, and laughed as if the mysterious allure of adulthood was no mystery at all; in the other, he fixed armor. The dreams hardly spoke to his child whimsies, and they were quiet, and peaceful on his mind. He didn’t hole himself up in his room again, but for the first time in his life his friends teased him for being a slowpoke. 

For some time after that, the dreams did not come again; yet, their effect remained. Takeo found himself taking pleasure in quiet contemplation more often, even if he found no answers in his musings. The changes were noticed, but found unremarkable by those around him. Just a child maturing faster, so they said.

Then, Takeo was ten—and in his fourth memory, he remembered what it felt like to fly.

That day, after he woke up, he laughed upon jumping out of bed, and tore out the door still in his pajamas. His bare feet stung on the pavement. Undeterred, he kept on running, faster than he’d ever run before, his eyes constantly watching the rising sun as it bled warmth over the horizon. He ran, to the point where his lungs cried out in his chest, and his feet were long numb from the pavement. Then, he laughed, brighter than the sun itself. 

"I’m alive!", he called out to the morning sun. "I’m alive…" It was the truth, and yet it was more than just truth. It was impossible, because he realized the dreams for what they really were. 

In some place else, somewhere that defied the rules all rules of reason, he had lived and died—and now he was alive again. Takeo felt something inside of him tense up, and release. He felt one more laugh escape him, and then he wrapped his arms tight around hismelf, and sank down to the ground and cried. He was alive—and he was alone.

After that, the memories did not come only in dream. There were a few, but for the most part he was content to be only reminded of his strange and impossible existence in small cues; the way he knew how to lift with his hips instead of his arms as he helped an old man cross the street; his recognition of the craftsmanship of the heirloom sword on display in his principal’s office. Then there were the rare times where he felt a presence at his back, and a face would come to mind—but he’d turn around to find no one was there. 

Finally, his parents had come to notice that their son was easily distinguished from his peers, and the heatedly worried discussions began to arise. After little debate, it was decided that Takeo would go the fast track; he was obviously advanced for an 11-year-old, and as such, his current education was failing him. “Aptitude Test” loomed on the horizon, and his parents ensured him that he need not worry, he’d do fine, and if all went well he’d skip a few grades of middle school. 

Takeo took the test, and in the fall he was enrolled as a high school freshman. 

He was more than just an anomaly now; his presence was outright freakish. Though his mind was an ecclectic mix of boy and man, his body was still all boy; his “peers” dwarfed him, and he stuck out. Though he was beyond being bothered by taunts, his loneliness became solid inside of him, and he became convinced that there was no relief. 

Then  _Date Masamune_  appeared. 

It was fate; a particularly persistent bully had just gone  _too far_ , and Takeo punched him square in the stomach. It was a good punch, too—which failed to surprise him, despite the fact that it was the first punch he’d thrown yet. The boy crumpled to the ground, and he was just ready to turn to leave when the unmistakable sound of clapping filled the air. 

“ **Nice one** ”, the voice called out—a bored drawl, English—and Takeo’s heart pumped harder. “Thanks for the show, little guy—color me surprised. Didn’t expect it out of a punk like you—”

Takeo turned, desperate, and found a face from his dreams made real; he stood, cocky and sure in the ill-fitted school uniform, with a bag slung over his shoulder. His right eye was covered by a strange, bandage-shaped eyepatch, and his eyebrow raised sharply.

"Masamune".

Recognition flashed in the uncovered eye. His bag dropped loudly against the pavement.

“ _Ieyasu_ ”, the other breathed, almost reverent, and the world felt right again.


	3. The Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's possible to remember too much.

"It’s gonna get harder,  **you know**.”

Ieyasu looked away from his current project—a robot that could spin on a point, like a spinning top—and looked up at Masamune, quizzically. He was thirteen now; well, thirteen, physically. He wasn’t really sure about his mental age anymore, but there was a sense that he was catching up, at least a little. 

"How so?" Compared to what life was like before, Ieyasu found that things had begun to settle after he’d met Masamune. Not only had he remembered his own name, but the names of others began to stick in his mind, along with faces. There was Tadakatsu, the strong and faithful companion, and Takeda Shingen, the most gracious of his surreptitious tutors, among a select few who began to fill out in his memories. He was cognizant that there were gaps, but he was content to let those fill with time.

Masamune sighed, and pushed himself away from the roof fence railing with a casual ease. He sat himself down in front of Ieyasu, his usual bored facade tinged with tension. Without preamble, Masamune took one of Ieyasu’s hands in his own, and turned it over in examination.

"You obviously don’t remember everything. Someday, you will", he said, and dropped Ieyasu’s hand back in his lap. 

Ieyasu furrowed his brows. The two of them hadn’t talked much about their “condition” after they’d met; the two had sunk into a comfortable rhythm of normalcy. Well…as normal as they could be. Yet, there was no denying that Masamune’s presence in his life grounded him. The other inspired a feeling of connection, to both the world that they once knew, and the world they now lived it. Having someone who  _knew_ , who  _understood_ —that was his lifesaver. 

Still. The two of them hadn’t spend much time reminiscing about the past—and they especially hadn’t discussed why they were here. Ieyasu had never before thought there was a need to.

Ieyasu carefully placed his project to the side. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Masamune regarded him silently for a while, and then blew out a puff of air. Ieyasu noticed the other take another glance at his hands, and then Masamune met his gaze.

"How many of your deaths do you remember?"

  _The face regarded him, dimly backlit by the gloomy sky. Rage, anguish and grief radiated outwards from him, like a second sun, burning him—and all Ieyasu could feel was sadness. This man was more than his killer; he knew him, and knew him well. Ieyasu lamented the darkened skies, for they denied him the chance to see him, just before he—_

Wait, did he just say—

“ _Deaths_?” Ieyasu repeated, stunned. As he did so, his concentration broke, releasing any trace of the mystery man’s identity back to shadow. “What do you mean—There’s just the one time, isn’t there?”

"Aah—so you remember one, at least", Masamune drawled, and rolled his eye. "No, there’s not just ‘the one’—that’s why I said ‘deaths’,  **you see**?” He stood up, and spread his arms out wide.

"We lived, we killed, we died—and then, we did it all over again. Over, and over, with each new turn of the wheel following some slightly new direction any time we made a different choice at the crossroads. Don’t you see it yet?" Masamune rounded on Ieyasu, a wild look in his eye. "You’re gonna remember  _everything and more._ Every outcome of every decision you ever made. Every time you died for your mistakes—and every time you killed someone because it was the right thing to do.”

Ieyasu furrowed his brows.  _Everything._ It seemed ridiculously large, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what that meant. A deep part of him, however, quivered at the word.

"Do you—"

"Everything that I would have remembered", Masamune interrupted. "I’m not the kind of sentimental fool who bothers to— _bothered_ ”, he corrected. He clenched his jaw tight for a few seconds, and then he sat back down. “I didn’t give a lot of thought to a lot of my kills. So many of them I don’t—didn’t consider worthy of a footnote. I wanted power, and I protected my own—everyone else was a matter of whether or not they were interesting. Otherwise, I forgot them.” The older boy then shook his head, and fixed Ieyasu with a piercing glare. “But you were different from me. Always big about  _remembering,_ that was your thing—you even boasted that you kept track of all the punches you ever threw!”

 _10_ , the number rose unbidden in Ieyasu’s head.  _I’ve thrown ten punches in this lifetime_.

There was a sudden weight in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

"But…how did it happen", he asked quietly. "What happened that made you remember?"

Masamune’s jaw worked slowly in a circle, and he sighed. He then reached his hand up, and lightly tapped his eyepatch with a crooked finger. 

"I was nine when I got my scar. Or should I say that it caught up with me?" He snorted, and shook his head. " **Naw**. It was just timing. I won’t bore you with the details, but something pulled the trigger on my memories. They all went off at once—and my eye went with them.”

Ieyasu dropped his mouth open in realization. The eyepatch. Masamune’s  _eye_. Even in his foggiest memories, he could easily see his friend’s most distinguishing physical feature. But that was a lifetime ago. Why had he never thought it strange that the damage to his friend’s eye had carried over into this new life?

"So, that’s the gist of things", Masamune said, and his smile faded. "Look—I just want you to know ahead of time. I wasn’t  _right_  for a while, after it happened. All this…” he waved something vague in the air. “It doesn’t sit well, and I’m not a good kid like you. I got rowdy, and I didn’t care who I hurt, new life or not—”

"So it was just like old times, huh?"

Masamune scowled. “I should deck you for that.”

Ieyasusu couldn’t resist a smile. 

"… **Punk** ”, Masamune finally relented with a smirk, and leaned back to rest on his hands. “Well, that does it. I’m not worried anymore.”

Ieyasu raised his eyebrows. “Worried?”

"About you." Masamune rolled his eye. "With an attitude like that? You’ll be fine when your scar comes around."

"Don’t forget, I’m not alone anymore, either. I have you now!"

Masamune blinked at him. Then, he shrugged, and leaned forward. He gave Ieyasu a hearty pat on the shoulder. A warm, comforting sensation traveled through Ieyasu, and a memory of a meeting, long ago, filled him. Allies; friends; that hadn’t changed. He didn’t know how many lifetimes he would remember, but an indescribable feeling inside told him that  _this_  would be the same.

"Yeah. You got me."

 


	4. A Meeting of Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Chosokame gets a good vibe off of that new grad student. Almost like he's know the kid forever.  
> Which is ridiculous, of course. He's only just met him.   
> Then again, memory was always a fickle beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember - “Chosokame Motoya” is Motochika’s reincarnation name, “Matsudaira Takeo” is Ieyasu’s reincarnation name

The sea. It was a mysterious entity, a powerful being; it stretched on, seemingly endless—yet, he knew he had begun across it at one point. Then again, limits didn’t matter. Here, he wasn’t just free, but powerful enough to move his own destiny. The blue depths beckoned, and he embraced it; the calm, the storms, the sea spray as it swept him along. Yet, he was steady; his feet were planted firmly, as if something supported him. He chanced a look down, and saw wood; a deck? And then he saw that he was on a ship, and the clamor of voices called out—

“Motoya—“

He blinked. That was wrong. Wasn’t it? Wait, no—it was—

“Motoya, I swear, get your lazy ass up. You’re drooling on your thesis.”

Motoya snapped awake, bleary-eyed, and looked around. A cluttered office filled his vision; his desk, grey and bland, with an old computer monitor buried underneath invoices; a beer mug that was filled with various colored pens. He blinked, and frowned.

So it was a dream. It made sense—that feeling of freedom couldn’t possibly exist in this world. Still, it felt different than his usual dreams. Somehow, it felt…real. Or was it something other than real? Motoya couldn’t put a finger on the fading images fast enough.

“Jeez—are you awake  _yet_? I’ve been calling you out for like a minute already”

Motoya frowned, and pushed up the frames of his glasses. The fuzzy hulking blob that he’d been willfully ignoring came into the focused image of one of his associates at the university, and he bit back a sigh.

“What is it, Jou”, he grumbled as he began trying to sort through the mess of papers on his desk. As expected, a large and tan hand plopped down on his progress with a determined frustration.

“Don’t give me that crap, man; I came here to be nice”. Jou huffed deeply, and some of it caught the edge of his dark, messy bangs. “You told me about it, didn’t you?”

Motoya gave him a blank look. “Uh. What?”

“You’re meeting with him today, right? That kid who applied for the graduate program”, Jou explained. “You said he was going to be coming here soon—“

Perhaps he was still half asleep, for nothing coming out of the other’s mouth was making any sense. What kid? Motoya didn’t remember talking to Jou about a kid. Sluggishly, he looked down at the desk again, and found his planner lying flat in front of him. Sure enough, there was a big circle around the date, marked with a purple highlighter. In his long practice of using highlighters, purple meant “important”—and not just any kind of important, but “promising” important. Motoya frowned deeper, and picked up the planner in confusion.

“I wouldn’t have happened to have been drunk when I told you about this, was I?”

Another indignant huff from the other confirmed his suspicions; drunk he was, then. Once again, he’d gone and gotten himself stuck in the untenable position of having to deal with an unwanted situation that he’d put himself into. Motoya groaned, and rubbed his temples.

“Why is drunk me such a sadistic bastard”, Motoya lamented. “I don’t think I’ve ever played as many pranks on other people sober as I have on myself when drunk.”

“Beats me”, Jou said with a shrug. “Maybe it’s because sober you has been a total shell case? You’ve been without a willing victim to be your assistant for a while, and hey—you sounded really enthusiastic about this one at the time. Maybe he’s worth the interview you signed yourself up for!”

“Shit—“ Motoya sighed, and got up from his chair. “I didn’t even write the goddamn kid’s name down. This is going to be fucking awful. Ugh—“ Motoya clamored up from his seat, and began parsing through the papers on his desk. Where was it, whatever it was—there had to be _something_ on this kid he could look at before the brat got there, right?

“If it helps any”, Jou called out, already on his way out. “I think you said his name was Ta—something. Takado, Takuto—“

“Family name or given name?”

“You didn’t specify”.

Arrrgh. Fucking  _perfect._

“Just get out of here already”, Motoya groaned, and planted his palms against his boring, unhelpful desk in defeat. “I don’t know when he’s gonna get here—“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it—you don’t want anyone you know to see your bad side. Please—you make your pain sound so entertaining.” The other shook his head despairingly, and ducked out of the room without further comment. Motoya relaxed his shoulders. Though he had known Jou for a long time, they were never really what Motoya would call “friends”; the other unsettled him for reasons he couldn’t explain, and it relieved him that their paths didn’t cross much outside of work.

Motoya sat down again, and on a hunch opened up the desk drawer. An open envelope met him, and he quickly pulled it out to examine it. On the front, the letter was addressed to his school mailing address in neat and bold script. The name next to the sender’s address looked vaguely familiar.

“…Matsudaira Takeo? What an old-fashioned name”. One mystery solved. Still, Motoya was bemused; Jou had mentioned him saying “Take-something”—that was the kid’s given name. What was in the letter that made him already on a first-name basis with someone he hadn’t even met yet? Without further hesitation, he started to fish out the letter.

A knock outside of his office called his attention.

“Jou, go away, I’m trying to read this kid’s letter—“

“Um. Professor Chosokame?”

A chill of panic ran down his spine.  _Shit_ —the kid was already here? And all he had to go on was his name—and he’d nearly just blown his cover. He slapped the envelope down on the desk, and bit down hard on his bottom lip. Well, he couldn’t just let the kid wait out there, could he? No, he couldn’t. Motoya huffed, and gave a pleading look towards the ceiling before calling out.

“Yeah, that’s me. Come on in already, and let’s get this all sorted.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the mysterious Matsudaira Takeo stepped into his office. The kid—because dang, he really looked younger than Motoya would have thought—was a broad-shouldered guy, with dark hair cropped short that stuck up in weird places. He wore a hooded blazer with no letterheads, and his jeans were a faded, pale blue, and a backpack slung over his shoulder. However, the thing that really got his attention was his face; the kid looked like he’d just seen death.

“Hey…kid”, Motoya called out, and frowned. “You alright there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I—“ The kid blinked, and shook his head. “Sorrry—I thought…never mind”.

Well, wasn’t  _that_  interesting. Before Motoya could pry, however, the kid walked right up towards his desk, and gave the chair in front of the desk a blank look. Motoya could have kicked himself; earlier in his rush to find a clue to Matsudaira’s identity, he’d pushed a bunch of his crap off of the desk. He’d neglected to think of it ending up on his chair—and lo and behold, what a wonderful impression he was making. To his surprise, Matsudaira didn’t make any comment; the kid actually smiled, and carefully gathered up the loose papers. Then he reached over the desk, collected papers all neat within his grasp.

“It’s about that time, huh?” Matsudaira offered cheerfully, that smile still intact.

Motoya felt his jaw go slack. Talk about winning smiles. Belatedly, he reached out for his papers, eyes still locked on the kid’s face. There was no guile, no smugness in the other’s face as he relinquished hold of the papers. The kid was genuine sunshine—and yet…there was something strange he couldn’t quite place.

“Right”, he replied absently—though he wasn’t exactly sure what the question was. Motoya cleared his throat, and looked down at his papers in faux interest, and tapped the bottom of the stack against the desk to straighten them out. Then, he realized that they were already straight. Oops. He ceased the redundant organization, and set them to the side. “Right, uh. Matsudaira, right?”

“Um. Yes, that’s right.” Matsudaira pulled the now-clean chair out a bit before sitting down, and then folded his hands across his knees. “I’m sorry—is now a bad time? You look busy—“

“No! No, not at all—now’s as good a time as any”, Motoya exclaimed, and waved his hands around in the air. “This is just how I am most of the time. Which brings me to the topic at hand—“ Motoya mustered up a smirk, and placed his elbows down on the desk. “Why me?”

Matsudaira blinked, clearly puzzled. “You mean why I want to study with you? But…I thought that was a requirement for the letter—“

“Letters give you time to think. I wanna hear you say it out loud—no rehearsing or nothing. Just spew your heartfelt guts out”. Oh, he was smooth. It was a nice way of glossing over the fact that he didn’t  _remember_  what the kid had put in his letter. Plus, he supposed things were much more fun this way. Put the kid on his toes a little! After all, he himself hadn’t felt on the ball the whole time—it was time for Matsudaira to feel the pressure cooker a little. Stupid drunk self and sunshine smiles ganging up on him like that, it just wasn’t fair!

“Well—“ Matsudaira paused, and a sheepish wibble of a grin made its way onto his face. “I was inspired by an interview in RoboNetwork—“ Oh, Motoya recognized the name. It was a pretty popular magazine amongst the robotic aficionado crowd, though he didn’t think it was the best. “One of the columnists mentioned your piece in a robotics exposition that year, which I hadn’t seen discussed anywhere else. The one that used wooden gears and steam pistons—I can’t remember the name, but I remember the description was…’a pulley that doesn’t use pulleys’.” Matsudaira chuckled softly, and something tickled at the back of Motoya’s brain. Something he was forgetting?

“Anyways, I looked up your work online, and I guess you could say I became a fan—“

“Wait.” Motoya held his hand out in front of him in disbelief. “You’re talking about the Pulling Wheel. That machine was in an exhibition 11 years ago. How old are you again?”

That took the other aback. Matsudaira’s mouth closed tight in shock, and only after a moment of upset mouth-turning did the other’s shoulders sag a bit. “I’m 21 this year.”

Ho boy, the kid really  _was_  young. He whistled in surprise. “Twenty-one  _this year_ —which makes you 20 now,” Motoya stated, and felt his throat go dry. “So—you’ve been following my engineering career since you were nine? Wait, how did you blow through undergraduate school so fast?”

“Yes, I’ve been following your career since I was nine—and no, I didn’t ‘blow through’ my engineering major quickly. I spent six years doing the usual coursework, just like everyone else,” Matsudaira huffed, and looked down at his folded hands. “I just got to the beginning of my undergrad career faster than anyone else, is all.”

Well, well. Motoya was beside himself; if Matsudaira was to be believed (and Motoya was inclined to do exactly that, goodness knows why), then the kid had graduated from high school at around 14. A bona fide prodigy had come calling to his humble workspace, asking for a chance to grow. This was more than golden; this was a platinum, no—this was an opportunity that burned like magnesium, flashing only once before someone’s eyes. The kid was smart, familiar with his work, and Motoya could tell that he had heart. Motoya wasn’t just going to let this opportunity pass; he  _had_  to have this kid work for him.

“Alright, alright, no need to get sore”, Motoya said in an attempt to placate the surly golden egg that sat before him. “I was just sayin’—well, never mind what I was sayin.” He sat back in his chair, and grinned wide. “You’re pretty good; I’ll admit that. So I can’t see any other option than for me to give you a chance.”

Matsudaira immediately perked, and he turned his face towards him. Enthusiasm seemed to beam from every corner of his expression. “You mean—that you’ll take me on as your student?”

“Starting in the fall”, Motoya replied with a small measure of giddiness.

Whatever he’d said about the kid’s smile before, he was exaggerating; the smile Matsudaira gave him right then was the most winning and utterly happy smile Motoya ever had the pleasure to witness. “Oh—thank you, professor! Thank you—“  He stood upright from his seat abruptly, and made a deep bow at the waist. “You have my word—I’ll do my best!”

Motoya couldn’t help himself; a jovial laugh burst forth. “Alright, alright—I get your enthusiasm kid—“

“Thank you for this opportunity, really—“ Matsudaira recovered from his bow, seemingly unbothered by the laughter. “You have no idea what this means to—“

Matsudaira cut off. His face turned into an open, confused expression. There was something bizarrely disjointed about it; though his mouth held no particular quirk, something in the kid’s eyes struck him as profound. It was almost like the kid had been asleep, and suddenly awoken to find himself in a very different place. Then, he blinked, and looked around.

“I—sorry.” Matsudaira bit his lip, and then faced him again with an awkward grin. “I just remembered something, sorry. It was very nice meeting you at last, Professor Chosokame—“

“You alright there?”

“I’m fine. No—I mean, really, I’m fine. I just need to—go—“ Then, Matsudaira leaned over and picked up his backpack from the floor, and gave him one last look before turning to go. “I look forward to working with you in the fall!”

“Uh—sure, kid”, Motoya said, still not quite following. “I’ll be seein’ ya—“

The kid waved, and walked—quickly, Motoya noticed—out to the door. In a flash, the exuberant and delightful mystery that was Matsudaira Takeo had breezed into his office, into his life—and then whisked himself away again. Motoya stared at the door, disbelieving everything that had just happened to him—and yet delighted it had happened all the same. This kid would be something, he thought. This kid was going to be great, and then everything would change for the better.

Motoya couldn’t help the feeling that perhaps, the kid might change him as well.


End file.
